


Ouroboros

by PoisonPeachPop



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonPeachPop/pseuds/PoisonPeachPop
Summary: "Castiel had been so sure that maybe here, this feeling was death and life all rolled into one bittersweet climax and that if he ended right here and now, maybe it had all been worth it all along. But as the thundering in his chest had eventually slowed, the euphoria and comfort of Dean finally being in his arms, his, it all fell away to the absolute agony of goodbye. And so Castiel wept."Cas centric one shot where Dean did end up in the Ma'lak box at the bottom of the ocean in order to save the world from Micheal in season 14.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for joining me on my debut one shot fic! As soon as this happened in the show, I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Please let me know what you think or drop a kudo, and thanks for visiting :)
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: I am not caught up with the show (blasphemy, I know!) I'm a season behind (literally watching s14ep15 as I type) and therefore I HAVE NOT SEEN THE ENDING. So please bare with me while I avoid any possible spoilers that may crop up in the comment section until I finally see it!

It began with the end, as was the nature of Castiel’s tumultuous life. 

The cyclical nature of give, give, _give_ just to turn around and have it snatched all away, a never ending ouroboros of failing hope. The first time, it had been easy, his emotion as frozen as the aching fire that burned like ice, licking at his phantom wings. Souls pleading, desperate, crazed for salvation, begging to be pulled from the depths of hell by the glorious angel that soared above them searching for the righteous man. 

Though it had been Dean that had plummeted to hell first, his story seemingly coming to the terrible end of everlasting torture, it became the start of Castiel’s personal fable, of Dean _and_ Castiel’s epic attempt, the first lick of pen to paper of a tale writ in the stars. In rewriting Dean, gripping his soul and tenderly breathing it back into life and form, Castiel’s own story had morphed, changed, and with a stark record scratch a new tune started and danced him along to a melody of cosmic dissonance. 

From there it had been a roller coaster of bad decisions, ultimate wins, the most terrible of lows. Learning to be more than an angel, more than just another emotionless cog in the wheel. Finding the humble warmth of humanity, becoming and loving them, aiming for more and less and everything in between. His story restarted a handful of times, ended so many more, each time blinking him out of existence in a heartbreaking instant. 

Yet with each finale Castiel’s last echoing, desperate desire was always to simply see the sparkling jade of Dean’s eyes. One last time before eternity claimed him, that would be enough. And somehow each time, with that last thought yearning in his mind's eye, he’d find himself stepping out of the dark into a new prologue where hunter green eyes always found him. Though somehow without fail he’d pick the wrong chapter or write the wrong path, stumbling his way through until darkness claimed him again and again, each time sure it was the last, sure he’d seen his final signature Dean Winchester wink. 

Castiel always thought his story would one day, truly come to a final close though, as all things and stories inevitably do. It’d end with the unfair, hard slam of a gilded book, too far gone for resurrection much less deserving of it. Or perhaps his pages would be torn and shattered, redeemable, somehow still able to define the last line of the story with some semblance of peace as the end game. But regardless of how it played out, Castiel had been so, so sure that it _would_ be him first. That he would be the one to say goodbye to this world, to Dean. But the Fates were cruel, disastrous Daughters that spun their tangled story to be near unbearable, a striking viper with a venom that would make him ache eternal. 

So of course it wasn't his world that went black first, but Dean’s. It had been a solemn, unfair affair, heartache as tangible as the burn of whiskey down his throat. Micheal was knocking too hard at the door, ding-donging his way into Dean’s mind with a ferocity Castiel could never understand, though he’d often and would forever wish he could. He’d take this plight from Dean without second thought, he’d give up every single new life he had ever been given if it had meant saving Dean from _this_. For Dean was all that was good, the phoenix of humanity constantly burning at both ends but forever ready to inflame himself for justice, for love, for family. 

It wasn't until it was too late that he realized every new start had been a serenade he was always humming, drawing him in ever closer towards Dean, breathing life and love into a mechanical heart that had once beat solely for God. But the drumming in his chest, the flush of blood under his veins was ignited, cruelly, finally, when they were forced to say goodbye, the final chapter, the for real dude this is it, please just let me- 

Dean had taken a moment with all those dear to him, a deathbed goodbye like every Hallmark movie he hated. He ate a cheese dripping, bacon globbed burger he claimed was as close as he’d ever get to heaven with Jack, pulling their son tight to him with the final advice to be good, to live on and make the world the Eden he had promised, but more so, above all, to find his own Eden. He’d pulled Bobby II to him gruffly, seeing within him the man that had helped raise him to be everything he was in the absence of his father, even if that version of Bobby hadn't lived it the way Sam and Dean had. Dean had told Bobby, not asked of course, to take care of his Mom, otherwise he’d find a way to haunt him, somehow, someway. 

With Mary, Dean just held her. Held her through the shaking sobs as yet another piece of her heart was unjustly plucked away. She’d pleaded, asking why she was ripped from Heaven just to experience this absolute Hell where her love and babies were stolen from her at every turn like clockwork. They’d sat for an hour, holding each other, crying, eventually laughing about that one time Dean had shaved all of Sam’s hair and THAT surely must be why he kept it so long now, the damn walking L’oreal advert. When it came time to part, Dean had whispered so quietly, so surely, that angels, his angel, would be watching over her and Sammy too, always. 

Castiel had left then, a mighty Seraph of the Lord, Soldier of the Heavens, Strong Arm of God... too weak, unable to watch Sam break down into a wet mess, clinging to his brother like the sweet five year old Dean would always remember him as. He’d walked away numbly, unseeing, the bellowing cries of Sam’s broken pleading voice chasing him through the hallways of the bunker, aimlessly wondering if maybe it would have all been better to have never felt at all. Never felt emotion, hate, anger, joy, love, anything, none of it, if this is what it had always been building up to. It would have been so much easier not to feel...this, this that would surely break him. 

But then Dean had found him, found him like he always did and always would. Castiel broke and fell and rose into a million, glittering, weeping pieces, Dean’s hand gripping his shoulder in an ironic inversion of the handmark on his own shoulder. Castiel was sure this is what stars tasted of, the electric tilt of trembling lips on his own, the explosion and heat in the press of Dean’s body rolling against his. It was their first and last embrace, an unjust end to the hymn that had started when he’d first felt Dean’s soul, wondered at that smile, realized he loved humanity, _man_. Loved Dean.

Desperate hands had trailed along his jaw, chest and hips, whispers of touch like he was revenant, like he was precious, as though he was worthy. And through the tears, the sweat and cum and passion, Castiel had been so sure that maybe here, this feeling was death and life all rolled into one bittersweet climax and that if he ended right here and now, maybe it had all been worth it all along. But as the thundering in his chest had eventually slowed, the euphoria and comfort of Dean finally being in his arms, _his_ , it all fell away to the absolute agony of goodbye. And so Castiel wept. 

He wept silent tears as they redressed each other, washing Dean in his funeral garb as though he was worshipping the very feet of God’s son. But unlike Jesus, as Dean caressed his face one last time, fingertips catching on stubble and tears, Cas knew Dean would not rise again. 

Castiel wept as they walked hand in hand towards the end, towards the eternal coffin, the unending death made of metals and sigils and finality. When Dean finally laid himself to rest in a living sarcophagus of selflessness and hope for all of humanity, Castiel felt a part of himself die too, and his soul, his grace, his heart would never stop mourning all that was Dean Winchester.

Castiel should have known that closing the damned chapter of Dean was impossible, like swearing to never reread your favorite novel knowing you damn well will, multiple times at that, until you can taste the very words. Dean was eternal within Cas’ heart, but woefully endless with Micheal at the reigns, trapped within a body within a cage within a savage world that would never allow Dean the peace he deserved. No, Dean was never ending and as time passed torturously, Castiel realized with horror that there were no new chapters, no fresh stanzas that would save Dean; he was stuck in a perpetual verse of persecution and there was absolutely nothing Castiel could ever do about it. 

All he could do was hide the box away, not into the ocean as Dean wished, for that seemed far, far too cruel even now. But to a quiet, dry expanse of earth, still somehow untouched by the modern world. It was in that silence when the screams began.

The begging, nails scraping, unbearable cries of please Cas, Cas, please just let me out, Castiel, _save me_ ; Roars of Sam, fuck, please Sam, Sammy, _help_ . Broken utterances of Mom, Dad, please Mom just- ANYONE! _Cassss don't leave me, Jesus_ , fuck...God, FUCK YOU CHUCK, just anyone LET ME OUT PLEASE, GOD, _Cas please_... Castiel realized that this, this was what it meant to fall, that the Empty would leave him here for a millenia, for all time, because Castiel’s happiness had choked and died the moment he’d closed that coffin and that there was no better torture than this...life. 

Time passed. Sam found some semblance of happiness in the arms of a caring brunette and her shaggy dog, and eventually true happiness in the dark haired son bearing the name of the man who saved the world, the brother, uncle, lover, who made his very existence possible. Mary and Bobby found a comfortable sort of love, the type that you only find after you lose your soulmate, pure and good and necessary. Even Jack lived a long, happy life, traveling the world, spreading the Gospel Winchester, making people’s lives better for being in it. But one by one they aged into black and white caricatures living on only in Castiel’s memory, heaving their last, wrinkled breaths while Castiel held their hands in his own ever-young grasp. He thought he knew torture, but Castiel was so terribly wrong and sadly he finally knew what Dean had meant when he’d said sometimes it just hits different, ya know? 

But then, like he promised, Cas watched over a generation of Dean’s, Jack Juniors, Samuel the Thirds and many many Mary’s, until one day Castiel realized the call of the Winchester blood that was so very ingrained into his soul to answer was now but a diluted whisper, the Winchester Brothers living on as nothing more now than myth and legend and liquidated lineage. The world turned and kept on like they'd never existed, like they weren't the reason it still stood at all, like they weren't, Dean wasn't, the reason Castiel stood still, lost, for what felt like forever after he had closed that unforgiving lid.

So very, eternally lost, especially on those dark nights where Micheal whispered into Castiel's ear through a metallic grave, taunting, teasing. It started with torture, of course, Micheal using Dean’s voice, his words and colloquial sayings barely edging onto the depth of what Dean was going through. Micheal would find glee in Castiel’s choked sobs as he narrated just what he was doing to Dean within his own mind, the way he was forcing him to murder Sam and his own imagined grand nephews and nieces a million different ways. Showing Dean Castiel’s deceit over and over like a horrible, staticy VHS on repeat. Micheal told him that Dean had now experienced his time in hell a thousand times over and then some, reliving every horrible regret and hateable moment with each sunrise and sunset, never ending. Sometimes, and Castiel abhorred himself for it, he would have to leave Dean, Micheal’s taunting so absolute and unbearable. 

He learned to stay, though. Because it was in those moments, when Micheal knew Castiel was at his very lowest, darkest place, so ready to release Dean just so he could feel himself fall to embers at Micheal’s snapping fingers and end this hell; those were the times when Micheal would let Dean peak through. A serrated edge, candle on top of the cake, last move to nail it all home, letting Dean’s actual, scraping, broken self break through in a gasping breath. A last ditch attempt ever on repeat to make Castiel give in to the temptation he’d felt every second since he’d said his ‘last’ goodbye. 

The first time he had known it really, truly was Dean was when he’d said he’d kill for a warm slice of the Harvelle’s blueberry pie, with sweet, whipped cream melting along the edges, crumbling crust scraping at his teeth. Warm against the biting cold of vanilla bean, the _beany kind_ Cas, with the real flecks of shit in it, not basic store brand crap. And maybe a nice cold beer while we’re at it, it’s pretty hot in here Cas, got swamp ass like a bitch, man. Castiel had laughed and wept through Dean asking how Sam, Mom, Jack were doing. _They're happy Dean,_ in heaven, but he couldn't utter that last bit, not at the euphoric cry that came from the box at the start of the answer. 

The second time Dean came back to him, eighty five years and twelve minutes, seven seconds later after the first time Micheal let him through, Castiel was as unprepared as he had been the first time. 

Dean came to him, a needy, desperate voice painting a picture of their last moment, of the way Dean had caressed him so gingerly, how he’d finally claimed the lips that had belonged to him since he was first ripped from hell. Dean spoke through teary breaths, remembering how it had been to feel him, to finally know what it was like to taste his every breath, to be inside him, to hold him, fuckin' finally. He talked about how sex had never felt like that, Cas, not even with Lisa, Cassie, it was more than that, it was always you Cas, just you, Cas, you, _you, you_ …And Castiel had roared, cried, brilliant and bright, uncharted power burning a one hundred mile radius around them in his anguish.

It wasn't the last time Dean came to him, and with time Micheal became more aware of how to work himself into the Dean Cas knew. So many battles where Castiel had to fight with himself, knowing that this wasn't his Dean, that it was Micheal toying with him and his so very sacrilegious heart. Civilizations rose and fell, burned into rubble with war and selfishness, recreated into a renaissance of pseudo-thriving glory only to crumble and rebuild time and time again, but for once without divine or demonic intervention. The three hundredth and thirty seventh time Dean came to him, in a decade where Impala’s flew in the sky and humans were fornicating with life in space, Castiel utterly broke. 

It started with a waking groan and ended in a fiery moan, Dean grumbling about an eternity of blue balls not being his first draft for what he expected when he signed up for this shit show. And Cas had been so sure, as Dean had whispered in a silky, needy voice of how he wanted to feel Cas’ lips, tongue, cock, that it was actually Michael underneath, toying with him so piteously. But then Dean had let loose a sob, unbearable, and whispered I’m sorry, I miss you, Cas, god I miss you. And the next moan resembled the sound of thank you, thank you for staying, Cas. Castiel, I love you.

And then Castiel finally snapped, taut emotions splintering and exploding like ending planets. It was after, at the sound of Michael's mocking laughter, that Castiel finally threw him, Micheal or Dean or his heart he wasn't sure, into the sea. Letting the heavy metal bubble and sink, water sloshing and capturing the deafening screams that he knew belonged to Micheal, not Dean, _not Dean_ , _please_ Chuck, _Lord_ just tell me that wasn't _my_ Dean that I failed yet again, Father, please…

And for the first time in thousands upon thousands of years Cas realized he was absolutely, utterly alone. The humans had left a hundred years ago, sailing into the cosmos for a better life, leaving this world to rot, not knowing that their absence would make it soar. The Earth healed, ever so slowly, plush green forests overtaking concrete tundras, wildlife growing and morphing and thriving. Cas thought maybe, if the earth had healed, maybe he too had healed enough to fish his love from the sea.

So Castiel reignited their story, once again pulling Dean from depths unknown, grasping him tight, expecting Michael's taunting curses as he rose. But when Cas had lifted the sea-slimed, coral encrusted box from the salty water it was of course Dean who came up bitching and sobbing and demanding, pleading. Cas never threw him back in the ocean; I ain't no Lochness Monster Cas, just a poor, actual monster, but shiiit no more drowning for fucks sake, Cas. Despite that, Castiel often toyed with the idea, only in those few moments of near normal conversation with Dean when Micheal would suddenly interrupt with an oh that's so sweet, Mom’s baloney special? Dean’s getting Alastair’s baloney special now, _Cas_ , on repeat for hmm say, twenty five years, give or take? 

But Cas wouldn't, couldn’t leave Dean again, no, not this time or ever again, even if it wasn't always Dean. Not when these tiny, precious handful of moments were what it meant to still have _his_ Dean, to be the tiny sliver left of Team Free Will, and he would gobble them up because no matter how impossible it was for him, Dean was suffering insurmountingly in comparison. Castiel now seemed an angel in name only, but Dean, Dean was the true angel, the light, humanity of the world, the savior of mankind. 

In fact, like planets exploding into dust, one by one every last angel eventually expired over time until one day Castiel realized he was the only angel left in all of existence, heaven be damned...and yet the human souls did not perish or hurl themselves onto earth as ghostly specters as they'd expected, somehow their eternal happiness remained unchanging and safe. And it made Castiel glad, so happy for those souls, but, why oh why was it never them, never Dean? He wanted to cry, but every last tear had been spent. With nothing left to give, he screamed to the heavens, true voice shattering the earth around him. This could not have truly been God’s plan all along, could it? 

But all of his care had been given time and time again on the only thing that really mattered to him anymore, Dean, Dean, _Dean_ ; and so his eyes stayed dry while he persevered through the loss of his very last brother and sister, the loss of the last of his kind. The lonely angel who gave it all up for...apparently nothing, and yet, _everything_. Because despite the loss, Dean was still and would forever be his guiding star, the arrow on the compass piercing through his heart. 

And so it went that way again for years, an unending existence with puzzle pieces of his Dean the only guiding light of his life until one unassuming day, the night suddenly remade itself. The sun shone bright and never ending like an archangel’s grace but _more_. Then it was engulfed in ephemeral blues and violets and reds that painted themselves into cacophonies of light and dark and every instance in between. Seven days of light and seven days of darkness passed in a literal blink, days where the breath was forced back into Cas’ lungs and the plain earth glowed green again with decadence, with faith, and then, only then, did Castiel feel it. And it was good. 

Cas was but a tiny shadow, agape in God’s light, billowing forth in his true, ever changing form, so bright even Castiel had to squint. Dean’s sweet euphemisms came to mind, the light at the end of the tunnel, the stairway to heaven, a really, _really_ good burger, Cas, just take a bite dude, step one for angelic rebellion: beef. But instead of embracing the glory, instead of a delighted, grateful, Amen...Castiel rushed forward and punched the ever loving shit out of the Heavenly Fathers' ephemeral form. He screamed and clawed out of his physical body, heaving animal heads and various wings and multitudes of claws and teeth scraping, curling, crying against the Lord's glowing form. Castiel fell at his feet, so very, very tired of it all, of waiting for glory, of hoping, despairing at his last slender thread of faith.

But there were no words, no apologies, no poignant looks urging him to just accept and move on. Instead, God’s form rippled and shifted and then Chuck’s snivelling face was suddenly there, wrinkled with a warm, bittersweet smile, forming into _more_ than the figure they knew as the man, the beginning, the Father that had left them...who now finally came back, because of true faith, because of loyalty, probably boredom but maybe, just maybe, because of true, everlasting, _real_ love. The kinda love that had God planning this sick sort of long game vindication all along.

As the earth billowed and shifted, blossoming into eternal beauty and fresh life, God’s form drifted away brilliantly, as if in slow motion, dispersed like a thousand raindrops falling on millions of shuddering, crystalline suns. Castiel felt his presence before he actually spotted him, real, unadulterated, crass, silly, earnest, strong... _his_ _Dean_. As the glow faded and the earth became the gleaming, fresh pearl it was meant to be, Castiel knew. 

It wasn't the heartbreaking hold on his very corporeal body, nor the whispers of heh, Adam and Eve, more like Adam and Steve, huh? Or the gasping God, Cas, is this real, please tell me this is real? 

No, it was the viridescence of his eyes, the golden flecks of life, of hope, love. The smile on Dean’s lips at the final realization of a man deciding fuck, I _do_ deserve this, happiness; an apple pie sorta life after all _that b.s,_ but if we see a big ass snake, Cas, you know what to do.

It was all Dean and just Dean, Micheal’s presence evaporating like a bad dream that never even existed. It was the feel of a familiar righteousness mingling back into his own soul, a part of his light finally coming home. The sacred touch of Dean’s tangible lips on his own, rippling tears and emotion from a shaking, living body, the feel of what it meant to be alive, to have and to hold. Dean was finally within his grasp again and he would never, ever let him go. Like the prologue of something always meant to be, or a final, happy epilogue, or perhaps just a sweet p.s, Castiel and Dean’s story truly restarted, ready and right. 

“Hello, Dean.”

  



End file.
